


One man's tool is another man's toy

by Anonymous



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Lingerie, M/M, and some lacy underwear, just a man, too much shochu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Takayuki’s not really thinking much of anything when he lets himself in the door of his office. He rubs idly at where his flank and arm are sore, the back of his arm already stiff and heated with the blood from broken vessels slowly pooling behind the skin to form a bruise. Four assholes in masks, four bats; it’s not the worst he’s had to deal with, but it was a full day and not what he’d hoped to find waiting for him at his own door at half till midnight.Whatever, at least he still has the package from Ayabe.--Post L'Amant, Yagami makes his way home -- forgetting the package he picked up from La Marche earlier until it falls out of his jacket after a long day of just trying to survive the Kamurocho grind. Bad ideas ensue.
Relationships: Kaito Masaharu/Yagami Takayuki
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25
Collections: Anonymous





	One man's tool is another man's toy

**Author's Note:**

> I did 50% of the Panty Professor mission on the same day Kaito and Yagami went to L'Amant to meet Ayabe. That's the story here -- keyed up, drunk, with two secret packages, Yagami stumbles upstairs after fighting off the four thugs outside the agency and goes about his business. 
> 
> This is part one of two, most of the naughty bits are in part two, as is the paring... as it were. I'll update them when I update the fic, which shouldn't be much longer than a week or two (frankly I'm stopping myself from pumping the whole thing out right now because I have a GENUINE NEED for this absurdity to get written oh my god y'all but I also have work, so). Thank you for putting up with my garbage kinks. Content warnings are at the end.
> 
> Title from Guy Clark's "Hank Williams Said It Best"

Takayuki’s not really thinking much of anything when he lets himself in the door of his office. He rubs idly at where his flank and arm are sore, the back of his arm already stiff and heated with the blood from broken vessels slowly pooling behind the skin to form a bruise. Four assholes in masks, four bats; it’s not the worst he’s had to deal with, but it was a full day and not what he’d hoped to find waiting for him at his own door at half till midnight.

Whatever, at least he still has the package from Ayabe.

Although, he thinks as he shuts the door behind him and flips on the switch that’ll start up the record player, he’s not exactly sure that’s what the foursome was after. The assholes bothering Chen from this morning seem like the more circumstantially relevant culprit, although Hamura’s been both way less pleased with him as of late and more informed about the Yagami Detective Agency’s continued interest in the Mole killings than Takayuki would prefer.

He sighs, squeezing himself through the gap between the wall and the couch to toss the file on his desk. Takayuki’s no stranger to mess, but things have really started to get a bit out of control since Hamura’s acquittal.

He’s about to sit down, crack open the Toki he hides between the gap of the pinball machine and the wall, and unpack his illegally obtained care package when something else slides out of his jacket. It’s the flat box with La Marche emblazoned on in it in brass-colored lettering. Oh  _ god _ .

Takayuki’s face heats without the help of alcohol as he bends to pick up the gift box from the floor. He runs the pads of his fingers over the smooth cardboard in a nervous trailing pattern before lifting the edge of one side up gently -- just aiming to displace the cover enough to confirm that he doesn’t suddenly have a far more benign piece of luxury clothing in his office. The red lace of the panties greet him as his fingers duck in to displace some of the tissue paper covering them -- discreetly packaged, Terahara-san had promised, good to his word -- and jams his fingertips in a hurry to replace the cover.

“Shit,” Takayuki hisses out, loud in the otherwise quiet space of the office.

He shakes his bruised fingers out as he steps away from the edge of his desk, torn between ignoring the Saotome Twins’ request for the evening and doing whatever he has to just to get the lingerie off his hands for good. There’s free shochu, more than perhaps his fair share, sloshing around inside his stomach turning sour and making Takayuki more queasy than he can deal with on frayed patience and nerves raw from a brawl, so seeing what of the stash of instant ramen is left over between him and Kaito picking at it over the last month suddenly surges forward as the most relevant course of action, everything else -- the Mole, the sexy underwear, his mystery assailants -- be damned.

The heat in the office is running nicely tonight, helped by the fact that it’s only October. Takayuki tosses his jacket onto the back of the couch and hoists himself up onto the kitchenette counter to rifle through the cabinets above the fridge. All of the New Touch are gone, but there’s a half crate of Tomato Chili which only Kaito eats left, a couple Mochi Udon, and one U.F.O which Kaito will not like if he eats, but Takayuki really doesn’t give a shit right now; instant soba is the cure to the bottom shelf shochu he drank too much while losing at poker, and Kaito has forgiven him worse. He tosses the packaged down next to the kettle and lowers himself, slipping a bit as he climbs down everything tilting precariously around him. There’s a headache starting up with a louder baseline than the club across the way, and it’s enough that Takayuki fumbles his hand through his hair and around the back of his head making sure he didn’t take a solid hit someplace he can’t properly recall. Nothing hurts more than usual, though. He drops his hands to his side, one of which knocks into the La Marche box again, and his attention derails once more back to his second privateering case, tackling the real people problems of Kamuro-cho.

What had the girl Saotome called him? Or had it been the boy? Dr. Underwear? No --  _ Panty _ Professor. What a fucking  _ creep _ . But thorough, by the sounds of it, and apparently sneaky enough to utilize a drone to lift the goods. And based on an expressed preference for lacy unmentionables -- possibly pretty observant, which provided the true crux of setting a bait for the guy. Would a lone, unwashed piece of women’s underwear reek of a trap? Maybe if Takayuki did a quick load of laundry in the Drumi while reading the case files, it would do the trick -- nothing serious, but socks, his own underwear, and the bait itself. He’s already reusing socks (the ones he has on now on their third tour of duty, yikes), so actually spending the time to do the wash wouldn’t really be wasted.

Takayuki pulls the top of the box off outright and tosses it in the trash at the end of the desk. He plucks the red lace from the box and bed of tissue, and spreads it out against the grain of his desk for a more bald-faced inspection. There’s a small section of adhesive across the crotch of the panties which he pulls off and tosses without much more than a thoughtful grunt, and then he spreads them between his open fingers, testing the elastic of the rim. Takayuki hadn’t specified a size, but spreading the waist… it’s not a huge stretch of the imagination to think he’d be quite capable of fitting into these, at least ... in that they’d not be too narrow. The cut is absolutely a genuine women’s style of underwear, so ah. Getting everything  _ into _ them, on the other hand, Takayuki really has no frame of reference for. He lifts them gently upwards until the soft lamplight from the desk shines through them.

His thoughts are interrupted by the cheerful tune from the kettle letting him know that the water is hot enough for cooking. Takayuki honestly can’t even remember pushing the start button, but his stomach gurgles again and he attends to unwrapping and filling up the large cup of soba with near boiling water.

Unbidden and unasked for, the thought occurs to Takayuki that no one would ever know if he tried the underwear on. If someone -- Kaito really, who else would even care? -- winds up discovering the packaging in the trash, it’ll more likely result in gentle teasing about having a mystery woman over than any kind of real inquisition, and the garment itself will be gone as soon as he can hang them up to dry on the roof (provided all goes well).

The U.F.O. has an above-average sit time, almost ten minutes till it’s cooked, and after closing the lid with his chopsticks, Takayuki takes a swaying step back towards his desk. The lace had been softer than he might’ve otherwise imagined, the notion of how the cut might suit his narrow hips and fuller front intriguing more than actually anything close to repulsive. Natural curiosity, Takayuki tells himself. The same drive that eggs him into trying to discover secret menus and chasing down half-baked leads. And again, he asks himself even as his fingers reach out to play with the neat little bow at the top of the hem -- who would  _ ever _ know?

His fingers travel to the worn, slithering heft of his leather belt before he properly processes the thought, pushes down his jeans -- his thumbs hooking through the tops of his briefs as well for efficiency's sake, bare assed to the insular world of his office in one sharp (if slightly clumsy) movement. He's stepping out of the pooled clothing when the timer for his dinner goes off, the braying of the cheap wind-up kitchen timer spurring him on and impressing on him a false sense of urgency, permission not to think about what he's actually doing. He slips one socked foot into the elegantly shaped leg-hole, then the other, before sliding the small piece of fabric up his legs. The lace becomes a little harsher on the skin as it stretches a bit over the width of his thighs, his hair there catching slightly in netting of the design. They're really not _that_ different from his normal underpants, but that notion evaporates as he pulls the waistband up to seat the lingerie properly, and ok -- they're different. They cut up much higher on his thigh, the back pulls up flush along the line of his ass and in slightly, bearing more of the meat of his butt than his own would and yeah. The concern he'd had about not entirely _fitting in_ to the front? Turns out was well-founded.

Takayuki feels the blush that hasn't properly left his face since he opened the box in the first place trickle down his neck. He adjusts his balls as best as he can, angling the skin of his dick up at a more pronounced angle than he might otherwise, and the underwear immediately grips him in a way that's a lot more tolerable than before, no matter how obscene he finds the sight of his shaft tucked along the sharp angle of the his hipbone. He can feel the fabric stretch across his more sensitive parts, accommodating the unexpected bulk. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but there's a need to keep touching and arranging himself he's trying to ignore right now; Takayuki is sure it's in part motivated by a school boy's type of embarrassment.

Not really willing to examine why it suddenly demanding his attention, Takayuki realizes it's been a while since the soba have been done and isn't drunk enough to be fine slurping down soft, overdone noodles, so he grabs the U.F.O. bowl with a muttered curse and a perfunctory clasp of hands, barely getting out a "-'tadakimasu," before shoveling the soba into his mouth. It's simple, the process of feeding himself. It's warm enough that it's not impossible to forget he's in his t-shirt and not much else, and his body is so grateful for the carbohydrates, Takayuki's mind starts to drift a bit as he hits a scoop-and-slurp rhythm that would be frankly impolite anywhere outside of his own home, alone.

He gets so into the post-booze eating-zone he has no real grasp on exactly how much time has passed before he hears:

"Ta-bo?" and the abrupt squelching noise of the record needle being stopped, from the entry way to the office.

Takayuki almost jumps out of his skin, turning with a bundle full of noodles half eaten strung between his mouth and the bowl to meet the half-amused, half-concerned gaze of Kaito who's just let himself into the office. 

**Author's Note:**

> CW: alcohol use, lingerie fetish. Nothing much else in this chapter.


End file.
